On the Trail in... Nicaragua

Lost on an island of true sweetness

It was one of those impossible-to-anticipate running moments. I’d been jogging about 90 minutes, and had just emerged from a lush grove of plantain trees, rambled down a dirt path, hopped around an enormous pig and tiptoed through a bunch of squawking chickens. I had drained the last of my water several miles back in the searing 95-degree Nicaraguan heat. My throat was parched. Worse, I was lost.

There in front of me loomed my best chance for help. Standing beside an ancient shelter stood a grizzled old gentleman gently swinging a machete. He was clad only in a pair of ragged shorts and plastic sandals. His home, like the others on this remote island, consisted of a dirt floor under a corrugated tin roof atop crumbling concrete walls.

Since I didn’t speak a lick of Spanish, getting directions was, I imagined, going to be tricky. In my Nikes and wicking shirt, I was well aware that I was a walking advertisement for the prototypical ugly American. And I was clearly intruding on his turf. Then, of course, there was the issue of the glinting machete.

Eyeing the massive blade, I approached gingerly.

How had I come to be there? Quickly, here’s the back story: For years, I’d been hunting for a remote location to teach a college course on "The history of the canoe in the Americas." Ideally this locale, if it existed, would be sufficiently untouched by modern civilization that the locals would still paddle primitive dugout canoes as their primary mode of transport.

Just 24 hours earlier, after three full days of reasonably arduous travel from my home in Nashville, Tennessee, I had stepped off a rickety boat on an island in the midst of Lake Nicaragua. I was on one of the larger islands in the lush Solentiname archipelago in southern Nicaragua. San Fernando, as the island is known, is home to some two dozen proud Nicaraguan families who live—as their ancestors have for centuries—without plumbing, electricity, phones, or roads. Although a few of the better-off families have recently obtained undersized outboard motors, most still travel by dugout canoe.

These wooden boats are crafted, by hand, from trees felled in these same islands. These canoes are seaworthy, as they must be; Lake Nicaragua is the native habitat to a rare species of freshwater, and deadly, cayman known locally as cuajipales.

To visit neighbors, the ever-affable residents of San Fernando have but two options—hop in a boat or walk. A dirt trail, perhaps 12 to 14 miles in length, snakes around the circumference of the island. Although nobody is quite sure of its origin, the locals presume the path has been there since the pre-Columbian era, perhaps 1,000 years or more.

Naturally, I had laced up my running shoes and taken off for a run through this tropical ecosystem. When I had left my own hut, I had clung to the naVve idea that as long as I kept the lake on my right, I ought to eventually finish where I started. And, vamonos, off I went! As trails do, though, this one twisted and branched and often went off on tangents and endless dead ends. Undeterred, I plunged on.

Picture, if you will, running amidst a real-life Gilligan’s Island—a true and unspoiled tropical paradise. The natural beauty was simply breathtaking, almost sensual in its richness. In short, I was in the midst of a dense rain forest.

The wildlife was spectacular, if a tad off-putting. I had been warned about the massive boa constrictors that like to drape themselves around the island’s enormous inland trees. Several species of poisonous snakes called the island home, but I was running through thick underbrush that often reached thigh-high. In short, if there was a snake down there, there was no way for me to spot it. My solution to the looming snake menace: Try not to think about it!

I did espy both green and black iguanas that were, like me, enjoying the sun-dappled coastline. And the birds! I am no birder but even I couldn’t help but notice the many species of brilliantly colored tropical birds that patrolled the meandering shore. Most common were the magnificent cormorant and roseate spoonbills. I was told that howler monkeys also roamed freely in these islands, but I never saw one.

Of this I was sure: I now understood why the Spanish conquistadors had named Lake Nicaragua "el mar dulce"—in English "the sweet sea"—when they had arrived in the 1500s. This was an island of true sweetness, of magical sights and sounds. As much as I was entranced by my surroundings, I was still inexorably lost, dehydrated and embarrassingly monolingual.

Shaken from my reverie, I decided to see how I might make out with this elderly machete man.

Thirty minutes later, I finally left the abode of this lovely gentleman. But not without first eating two of his bananas right off the tree, sharing a local beer and getting a quick lesson in proper machete usage. He insisted—it seemed the neighborly thing to do when a slightly nutty American in Nikes comes trotting through your front yard. A more decent or hospitable man I have seldom met—despite the language barrier. We got by on smiles, hand signals and a bucket load of good intentions.

As I have shared this little tale with my running amigos, it seems that everybody has a similar running story: Most runners will talk of a magical experience that came when they least expected it. At a minimum, these experiences will help shake us out of our lethargy. At best, they often serve to reaffirm our faith in humanity.

The lesson for runners? Don’t be afraid to get out of your running routine, to try something off the proverbial beaten path. Your magical and unexpected moment may be waiting for you just around the next corner—or plantain tree!

Trail runner Willy Stern travels the world from Nashville, TN in search of his next adventure.